The Founders Four
by antebunny
Summary: Helga Hufflepuff, from a Welsh family of tailors, will never talk about her father. Godric Gryffindor practices battle magic wandlessly whenever he can escape his father. Rowena Ravenclaw invented most Runes taught in Hogwarts before she is sixteen. And Salazar, with a haunting family past, needs his own story. How did they ever meet? This is their story. This is the Founders Four.


So many questions…

 _How did the Founders meet? If Gryffindor's sword absorbs the abilities of whatever it defeats, and Ravenclaw's diadem grants knowledge, what does Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's cup do? Do they mean anything to the Founders? Did Slytherin really want to set a basilisk loose on children? How did they make Hogwarts? How did they learn magic? Why do wizards and witches seem to have been more powerful back then than they are now? Who made the Goblet of Fire? What does it do? How did Hepzibah Smith get the cup? How did the Gaunt family get the Resurrection Stone, when the second Peverell brother killed himself to join the love he never got the chance to marry?_

What do we actually know about their lives? That Gryffindor was from moors, and Slytherin from fen—from marshes. That Hufflepuff was from valley, and Ravenclaw from glen—from Scotland. That they lived a thousand years ago, that they built a school, that all four of them may or may not have ancestors living today.

We know so little.

 _This is the story of their lives. Their hopes, their dreams, their faults, their fights, their falls, their strengths, their triumphs. This is the story of the Founders Four._

But first: history lesson!

Yes, this is important.

Okay, let's start with the Romans. You've heard of the Romans, yes? Had emperors, gladiators, conquered most (probably about 10%) of the world? Great. If not, leave and never come back.

What we know of Hogwarts tells us that it is around a thousand years old in Harry Potter's time. So, 1990, give or take a few years, minus a thousand years, leaves us at 990 A.D. The tenth century.

But let's go back all the way to the first century. What was happening in Britain during the first century? The Romans were invading.

But they were invading a far-from-unified Britain, that definitely didn't all speak the same language. The Romans speak Latin, the Scottish (who are far from unified but have far too many clans and houses for us to worry about) speak, again for simplicity, Scottish Gaelic. The Welsh speak Welsh, of course. The English are not English and consist of Brigantes, Irish, Jutes, and—where are the Welsh, you ask? Who are the Welsh? Who are Brigantes? Why are there Irish in England? Are Jutes Jews?

Say look, a map!

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 **Look at it. NOW.**

 _(Yes, this is a board game map. Will that be a problem?)_

 _(No, I cannot put it in any other way but this. You will have to delete the spaces)._

The green pieces are the Welsh, and the red lines you see show the borderline for Wales. The four blue pieces you see are all that remains of the Belgae. The red are the Brigantes. There _was_ one single green Irish invader who probably died attacking a Roman fort, or drowned. If there are some smudgy blue pieces up in Scotland (which is marked by the other red line), they are Picts. This is basically the beginning of the Roman invasion. It started in 43 A.D. with the Roman emperor Claudius, and just seven years later they built Londinium, which would one day be renamed London. So yes, in 2050, London will celebrate its 2000th birthday. Whoopie.

43 A.D. is, of course, 43 years after the birth of Christ. Whether you're a believer or not, he died in 37 A.D. (and if you're a believer, he came back to life, but we're not talking about that). Thus marks the beginning of Christianity.

The Romans made it all the way to Scotland—Hadrian's wall, if you've heard of it, is the line of their furthest advance. It is close to the red line drawn of Scotland on the map—imagine that, but flatter.

Then the Roman Empire collapsed, as empires do. There were various reasons, but we (I) don't really care about them.

By the fourth century, they were gone.

The Romano-British were what happened to the Roman army after they stopped getting paid and stopped being led into battle. They settled down, and became less Roman. King Arthur is thought to be a Roman general who led what remained of the Roman soldiers (Lancelot, etc.) against, essentially, Celts. Of course, the time is unclear, but it would be around the fifth to sixth century. But Merlin was real! He was!

Between that time and the end of the tenth century (901 to 1,000 A.D.), lots of people have been in and out of England, pillaging and plundering. Jutes, Irish, Scottish (remember, Scotland is currently Pictland), and of course, Angles and Saxons. By the time the tenth century rolls around, England is more or less stable—save for the royalty, who are constantly killing each other. (England is marked by the red lines, so excluding Wales, Scotland, and Ireland). In 978 A.D. King Edward is murdered in Dorset, probably by supporters of his half brother, Ӕthelred, who gets crowned king after Edward died.

King Ӕthelred the Unready, as he is known as, is king from 978 to 1016 A.D. By that time, England is Christian and happily burning witches (although that doesn't really have to do with Christianity: Queen Mary burned people at the stake just for disagreeing with her. There was a Southeast Asia/India empire that made walls with the bodies of those they conquered _while they were still alive._ My point is, people didn't really need a reason to burn people alive if they had enough power *cough* _Hitler_ *cough* or if people honestly agree with their reasons, aka ' _witches! They've come to… do evil! Sway us away from God! Lead us to eternal Hell! BURN them! BURN THE WITCHES!)_ Also, please do note that slavery wasn't banned in the UK much earlier than it was in the US, they just didn't have a bloody civil war over it. And some people may consider that worse than being burned alive. MY POINT IS, people used to do very horrible things very blatantly!

Honestly, people just didn't accuse people of being witches that much. (It leads to a whole "it was HER! SHE got me to sign the Devil's book!" "Well…because SHE convinced me!" "Yeah, and _I_ did it because of…HIM! He's a demon/wizard/Satanist!") And because there just wasn't anything to accuse some random woman of, besides a mysterious sickness or series of unfortunate events. I mean, of course there were witches, they were just…discreet about it!

Anyway…England has not split from the rest of Christianity (King Henry VI creates a Church of England because he wanted to divorce and/or behead his wives, and Martin Luther— not to be confused with Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. leader of the Civil Rights movement in the 1960's, splits it again to create the Lutheran branch) yet.

Oh God, that was one sentence.

Moving on!

 **IMPORTANT NOTE:** I don't know anything about British culture, much less British culture at the end of the Dark Ages! I'm makin' this up! I can look up things, such as paper made its way to Europe in the eleventh century, the history of Scottish clans, and words in Latin and Old English, but I mean, it was the Dark Ages! Come on! Most of the places mentioned are real, but they probably weren't in the tenth century. (The rest of the places are from Harry Potter or for the purpose of this story).

 **SLIGHTLY LESS IMPORTANT NOTE:** I will be inventing lots of stuff about Runes (they're not Ancient, genius, this is the tenth century) and things that don't exist in Harry Potter canon because people have forgotten it, and because people _are_ less powerful… for a reason!

So we have the Archbishop of Canterbury, King Ӕthelred the Unready of England, fuzzy British culture, witch burning, and the Founders Four!

 **March 18, 983 A.D. In the fenlands right outside of Selborne, England**

The Melis Forum were slowly making their way from their home valleys down to the south. As the tall grass of the valleys faded away into the muddy marshes of the south, the sun sank lower in the sky, casting vibrant sunset colors across the canvas blue sky, spotted with unspun cotton clouds. The air smelled of a wet spring passing, accompanied with the calls of birds flitting from the trees that spotted the wild fenlands.

Well, they called themselves the Badger Clan in private, but in reality, there were only five of them: Harriet and her children Helene, Henry, Harold, and Helga. They were a family of tailors and seamstresses, traveling in a single caravan pulled by two horses across the southern marshes. Harold and Henry sat outside, guiding the horses. Helene and her mother Harriet sat inside, carefully threading silver embroidery through a deep blue silk tunic.

Helga held not needles or horsewhips but a wand.

Helga's great-grandfather had made it; beech with unicorn horn core. It had been passed down to her father and then to her. They hadn't seen a unicorn since. But then, they hadn't seen a dragon or a phoenix either, although those made sense: knights were constantly trying to hunt dragons these days and phoenixes were always out of sight, high up in the sky.

As Helga waved her wand, the silk and needles rose up and began to thread themselves, stitching black on green silk. Bolts of cloth rose in the air and cut themselves into various shapes, neatly and efficiently, the scraps falling on the wooden floor where the family sat. Helga turned her attention to the stale bread that sat, rotting, in the boxes that contained the entirety of their food for the journey. Her brow creased slightly as she waved her wand over it… and slowly, it transformed into a fresh loaf of brioche that made her siblings' mouths water. Helga immediately turned back to the fabrics.

"Take a break, Helga," Helene said. "Come have supper with us!"

"No, no," she protested. "We make it there by nightfall, and there is still so much work to do!"

"Mother and I will do it," Helene sighed. "I swear, one day you will work yourself to death."

"You keep saying that."

"'Tis true," her brother commented as he came inside. Henry took a seat on the wooden floor with a huff and made a grab for the bread. "I hath heard a moste sacred word!"

"'Supper'?"

"Precisely, dear sister, precisely."

"Mother said that this was a tough customer!"

"Yes, and very wealthy. Why do you think he asked for us, all the way from the Welsh valleys?"

"Exactly! And if he is so wealthy, it would be no hindrance to pay another seamstress-"

"But if he wants it done fast-"

"And he does, seeing as he asked for us for precisely that reason-"

"He doesn't; he knows we're coming from valley broad-"

"He asked for us because of the _quality_ of our works, and we know who to thank for that-"

Helga blushed, losing track of her argument.

"Are you going to just leave me out here?" Harold called.

"Yes indeed!" Henry called back cheerfully. "This bread? It is _mine."_

"You said that just a fortnight ago," Helene said dryly, and Harold laughed from outside. "Please refrain from sounding so mundane, truly, it bores the mind."

"No worries," Helga said immediately. "Would you hand me our Latin book?"

The book was the only treasure that the family possessed, not because of its worth in particular, but because it was necessary. Although, it was rare enough to find a commoner who owned a book, much less one who spoke (or read Latin). It had been their father's.

"I have been working on a new one," Helga said, and immediately the caravan was stopped so that Harold could come and watch. Spells, Helga had discovered, were like another language, a language that was luckily very similar to Latin.

"Tell us the process," Mother commanded, carefully setting down her needlework.

"Ah, yes. Of course. I started out with water: aqua. As per usual, that was too vague, so I added 'send': mittiti aquam. That did not have satisfactory results, so I tried flipping the two words around: _aquamittiti._ That worked better, so I kept on experimenting…vowels, etc cetera-"

And her family could guess at how long it had taken her, for they had heard most of her 'experiments'.

"-And found that switching the 'q' for a 'g' worked quite nicely, and the first 'i' for an 'e'. I continued with consonants, added an 'n', discarded a few 't's', and got aguameniti. My last step was just to get rid of another 'i'. _Aguamenti!"_

A thin stream of water burst from the tip of her wand and landed on two disgruntled horses. The family started cheering.

"Praise the Lord! No more stale water!" Henry cheered.

"Henry!" Mother scolded.

Helga's older brother subsided. "Thank you, Helga."

She smiled warmly. "Please, I did it for us merry band of badgers. Supper, anyone?"

 **March 18, 983 A.D. Selborne, England**

It was 'bar time' when their caravan finally rolled into town. At least, that was the name the two brothers had given it: the time of night when men were off getting drunk in the local tavern. Helga duly noted that it was on the opposite side of town from the church, as was the lord's manor. The manor was behind the church, on the top of another hill.

"Time to pick up the town gossip," Henry said jauntily.

Helene scowled. She was forbidden from the tavern, by society in general. "I doubt there is anything worth noting. Not in a town this small."

The cozy little town of Selborne sat on top of a hill, with little dirt roads, most barely big enough for a single horse. And yet the Lord of Selborne was very wealthy, for this was the only place among the fenlands that _wasn't,_ well, fenlands. As such, it could support far more produce than the rest of the area, and it did.

They rented a few rooms at the inn after being reassured that their caravan wouldn't be stolen—it was a small town, where were they going to hide it? The two horses were unsaddled and taken to the stables.

Harriet settled onto her bed with a sigh. "Lord, I missed beds."

"You said the same thing about the innkeeper's mutton stew, Mother," Helene said wryly.

"Don't talk back to me," Mother said cheerfully, in far too good a mood to put any real threat behind her words.

"Of course, Mother dearest."

"Helene-"

"Very well-"

Mother sighed. "Where are your brothers?"

"Still at the tavern," Helga replied, poking her head in the door. Even with her hand held up, resting against the doorframe, you couldn't see the wand in her sleeve, fitted snugly in a pocket that Mother had sewn on, not with the loose yellow sleeves and ruffled inner layers. It may look far too fancy for an ordinary commoner, but Helga's family _did_ make dresses for a living, and Helga was certainly no ordinary commoner.

She was a witch.

Although, her family so studiously avoided calling her that to the point where Helga didn't think she had ever been _called_ a witch. Even in private, her family avoided saying 'magic' and instead called it her 'gift'. Perhaps it was in order to not associate Helga with the 'normal' witches—the ones that were burned on the stake, along with women accused of being witches when they were blatantly not. Her brothers had found a roundabout, logical way of thinking about it: normal witches got their 'magic' from Satan, whereas Helga had gotten it from their father—and clearly, Father couldn't have been Satan because then Helga's other three siblings would be half demon too. _And if Father was Satan, he wouldn't have married Mother, and he wouldn't have died, but that wasn't mentioned out loud in the family. Ever._

Helga had her own doubts with that argument. It seemed most likely to her that 'normal' witches—the real ones, that is, had gotten their magic from their own mothers, or maybe fathers, and while their mothers hadn't been 'caught in the act', they had. Personally, she thought her brothers' argument was just to deal with their own guilt about knowing there were girls just like their little sister out there—being burned alive. Helga fantasized sometimes about going out there and rescuing them and teaching them, but she wasn't ambitious, and she wasn't particularly courageous or adventurous. She didn't know battle magic, either, she didn't have the time to do much other than 'cooking' and household magic. She was Helga Hufflepuff, from valley broad—hard-working, kind, steadfast, honest and honorable seamstress and cook Helga, the witch of the Melis Forum, the Badger Clan.

Not a mediwitch or a battle witch. Or a sorceress, like the infamous Irish witch the Morrígan, or an enchantress, like mysterious Morgana LeFay.

"They're coming back now," Helene commented idly, jerking Helga out of her thoughts. All three women heard the boys tromp by to their own room, before showing up a few minutes later.

Both had huge grins on their faces, of a cat who has caught the fish.

"Are you sober?" Mother asked warily.

"Yes," Henry answered. "I wouldn't dare do otherwise."

"I stopped him," Harold said. "He tried."

"He lies!"

Helene gave a very unlady like snort.

Mother frowned.

Helga sighed. "Any news?" She asked, in an attempt to distraction that worked surprisingly well.

"Yes!" Both said immediately. "While there is so little news in this town that us, the traveling tailors are newsworthy, there _is_ something else…" Henry continued.

"Well?" Helene demanded when it was clear that Henry was trying to draw out the suspense.

"There is a demon boy," Harold said.

Helga jumped, Helene let out a little _eep!_ and Mother's hand flew to her mouth.

" _What?"_ Helene asked, incredulously.

"Ah, there is a huge debate over it," Harold continued. "Some people think that he is being possessed by a demon, some people think he sold his soul to the Devil, and some people think he _is_ a demon."

"Who?"

"The lord's son," Henry said.

"Deus meus!" Mother gasped. "But that's…that's…"

"Yes," Harold said gravely (well, he was trying), "that's the son of our client, Lord Alder, and his wife, Lady Sabrine."

"And we are to serve these people?" Mother asked incredulously.

"Ehm, yes," Henry said. "Apparently Lord Alder 'forgot' to mention it. It was discovered two years ago when a serving maid saw him turn a knife into a snake and summon a black fire-"

"And set his own pet snake on her-"

"No, it was the same snake-"

"No, he set his snake on her, and when she stabbed it with her knife he turned her knife into a snake-"

"No, he summoned the black fire when she stabbed it-"

"He did _both-"_

"Do you," Helga interrupted quietly, "think he's like me?"

Silence.

"You don't turn knives into snakes," Henry pointed out sensibly. "Or summon black fire."

"I do transform things," Helga argued. "And I summon water. But I mean, most people think that witches are women who have sold _something_ to the Devil. And I'm a witch." She gestured as if to say, 'and I haven't sold anything to the Devil'.

Her entire family flinched.

"What?" She asked dryly. "Did you think I was a magical seamstress?"

"Helga, I forbid you to have anything to do with that boy!" Mother said immediately.

"What?" Helga said again, in a completely different tone. "What do you mean? I-I didn't-"

"You don't want to end up like him," Henry said seriously. "When I said it had been discovered two years ago—nobody has seen him since, but holy men have been riding in and out of the village all the time now, and three days ago another group came in, and there's a rumour going around that-" He swallowed, almost imperceptibly. "-That they're going to try to _burn it out of him."_

Silence.

"That boy is _nothing_ like you," Mother said firmly, and Helga gaped at her. She had just heard that the boy's _parents_ were getting someone to burn him alive, and this was all she could say?!

"He-" Mother began, but Helga interrupted, unable to stop herself.

"Then he's like Father!"

Her siblings blanched. And Mother… Mother _hissed._ "Don't you _ever_ mention your father _ever again!_ "

"Wh-what's th-"

" _Stop."  
_ Helga stopped.

"I don't want to hear about this ever again," Mother said. Her voice was barely a whisper, but to Helga it seemed the loudest sound in existence. "Your brothers and I will take the finished works up to the manor. _You_ will stay in here and do the cooking and the sewing. Am I understood?"

 _Cooking and sewing,_ Helga thought sadly. _Is that all my family thinks I'm good for?_ _ **Is**_ _that all I'm good for?_

"AM I UNDERSTOOD!" Mother shouted, and Helga jumped, frankly terrified. The last time Mother had shouted was when Harold had shoved Helene off a cliff. (Long story, juicy gossip. Later).

"Yes, Mother," Helga said quickly. "Understood."

 **April 6, 983 A.D. Several hundred miles west of London, England**

Parry. Backslash, block, uppercut, half-circle, parry, side-step, side slash, block, stab, retreat, half-circle again, locked hilts—disengage.

"Faster!" Sir Gellert demanded as soon as they took a step back.

"I'm trying!" His son panted, and indeed, he was, and he had succeeded—he just wasn't fast enough.

"Not fast enough!" Father snapped. "If I was an enemy soldier I wouldn't give you time to lace up your boots, so get moving!" Even as he spoke, he was lunging for his son again.

Although he was tired, his blade flashed with an alarming speed downwards and caught Sir Gellert's blade almost vertical to his legs—if Father had managed to swing it upwards, it would have sliced him right between the legs. A killing stroke. (Not just gross). He stepped back, but his father advanced, and they began again.

Thrust. Parry. Block. Slash. Stab. Sir Gellert's blade point headed directly for his son's left shoulder blade, but he simply turned in a quarter circle while setting his own blade for Father's unprotected neck. But Father had expected this, and caught his blade above his head. His lips thinned into a determined line as Father put his force into his own blade, trying to bring it down on his shoulder. He side-stepped again, moving his own blade out of the way, but naturally, Sir Gellert didn't stumble. His blade didn't even come close to wavering at the sudden lack of resistance.

No, he advanced again and continued.

An hour later, he was fighting three of Father's foot soldiers while Father watched from the side, barking things like "watch your footwork, you're going to trip over your own feet, boy!"

"He could've killed you right there when you weren't watching, lackluster!"

"Stop scampering away, boy, are you a lion or a mouse?!"

Father finally ran out of commentary when he sent the last one face-first into the dust.

"Good job," he said curtly. "Clean up. Practice in my study."

He suppressed a groan. "Yes, Father."

He knew, logically, that his father was training him to be prepared for any danger (and Lord knew there was plenty of _that_ out there), but he also knew that Father wanted him to be as good as his grandfather—his grandfather, who had been born in the wild moors, lord of this town, and had become the most famous knight of his time. So famous that he had gotten his hometown named after him, the town Father grew up in, the town he lived in, and the town that was also sort of named after him, because Father had given him the same name as his grandfather.

And now he was going to go practice 'sounding fancy', as he called it, but never to Father's face. Hopefully after he stopped sweating so hard.

Most likely Father would be going over important people history.

"Lion," he mumbled to himself. "Right. I'm a lion."

The three men, groaning on the grassy ground, looked at him strangely.

He was wrong. Father wanted to go over Latin conjugations.

"Quia dereliquit me," He recited. "Et ego ad sinistram, reliquit eum, et reliquit, quia derelicti sunt, quoni… quoniam derelicti sumus, qui et—ad sinistram omnes vos."

"Again."

"Quia dereliquit me, et ego ad sinistram, reliquit eum, et reliquit, quio—quia derelicti, quoniam derelict—derelicti sumus, qui ad sinistram amo… omnes vos."

"Again."

"Quia dereliquit me, et ego ad sinistram, reliquit eum, et reliquit, quia derelicti, quoniam derelicti sumus, qui ad sinistram omnes vos."  
Useless. Boring, useless, and time consuming, in his opinion.

"Good. To advance."

"Intuli respondetur, non attulere, processit enim, illa qu—quae afferuntur, illa profecerimus, nobis reddiderunt, habent provectis amni… omnibus vobis."

I have advanced, you have advanced, he has advanced, she has advanced, they have advanced, we have advanced, you all have advanced. Woo-hoo.

"Again."

"Intuli respondetur, non attulere, processit enim, illa quae afferuntur, illa profecerimus, nobis reddiderunt, habent provectis omnibus vobis," he repeated again, dutifully.

"Good. To retreat."

"Ego receptum…"

"Wrong. That is 'I have retreat', which you most definitely do not have."

"Ego…"

"Wrong."

He thought for a second. "…Me terga…?"

"Good. Continue."

"Me terga…verten…vertentus?"

"Close. Try again."

"Me terga verten _tum?"_

"Closer. Try again."

"Me terga verten _tem_." I have retreated. Ever-so useful, dearest Father.

"Good. Continue."

It was grueling. And he had been doing this everyday since he had turned ten.

Three hours later, he stumbled into his own chambers, discarding his 'scholar' robe on the floor carelessly. And to the surprise of anyone who knew him, grabbed a book. A journal, actually. There was a reason he disliked Latin lessons less than important people lessons.

The journal had been his grandfather's, and Father had discarded it as 'some strange fabrication of my father's. Useless.' Paper, which already existed in the Middle East and China (currently the Han Dynasty), wouldn't make its way to Europe until the eleventh century, but to his grandfather, who could Apparate back and fly there, that's not really a problem. Father wouldn't know that his son had kept it.

He had kept it because there was another talent he had inherited from his grandfather, one that he was sure Father didn't have or know about, otherwise he wouldn't have thrown away this journal. Because it wasn't just a journal. It was a book of spells. His grandfather had been a mage, and so was he.

 _Moste Potente Booke of Magicke ,_ it said, (in Latin), once you turned the cover.

 _By Sir Godric Gryffindor, Battle Mage._

Godric Gryffindor, wizard, swordmaster-because-let's-be-real-who's-gonna-knight-him, and grandson of Sir Godric Gryffindor, opened it to the section titled _Incantatems for Warding Againste Beings Moste Evile_ and crossed out _familia exemplus_ with his quill. He had tested it yesterday (yes, by throwing rocks, don't judge) and it hadn't worked. He flipped to the section titled _Offensive Incantatems Againste Ye Common Folke_ and let a little drop of ink fall right next to _petrificus totalus._ That one would come in useful. If only he could say it faster. There were also some in a section called _Offensive Incantatems Againste Beings Moste Evile_ that he was afraid to test out, such as _dolorimus_ ( _dolor_ meant pain, so…) and _statum moriter._

Godric had played with the idea of telling Father a few times, if only to gain his approval. Being a mage would certainly be useful in a battle, and it would mean that Godric was even more like his grandfather. Once he almost had—and then news reached their town of a man from Marlowe who had turned out to be a wizard and cursed two children in the town before he was killed by a mob of angry villagers before he could recite the Lord's Prayer. (Wizards and witches weren't supposed to be able to recite the Lord's Prayer, which was complete hogwash because Godric could). Apparently he had hypnotised the children into walking off a cliff.

Personally, Godric thought that the children were simply sleepwalking, because if the man had been a sorcerer—or a wizard, he supposed, he could have used the _Technique of Travel Moste Swifte_ his grandfather had mentioned in his journal. _Apparitus,_ Godric called it, using _appear_ and changing a few letters. _The Arte of Apparitus._ It sounded… reasonably Latinish. Right?

But Father had gone on a long rant about men accepting deals with Satan. _It was to be expected of women,_ Father had said. _Being naturally weak-minded and easy to frighten._ They needed men to take care of them, so it was absolutely unacceptable for a man to follow suit—like Adam in the Garden of Eden, following Eve in a path away from God. As Father said.

Godric disagreed—grandfather had gone on long soliloquies about grandmother (honestly, he made her name sound like on of his section titles: My _Faire Lady Moste Beauteous and Moste Talented in the Arte of Magyke)_ who had died at childbirth, like Godric's own mother.

Most of the discoveries his grandfather wrote about in his journal he attributed to his wife, including all of the potion recipes (that Godric still had yet to try. Honestly. It's not like he could just go around searching for plants, and where would he get the cauldron without letting Father know? Although 'Vial of Liquide Explosione' sounded exciting.) and all of the transfiguration techniques (and Godric had also yet to try Transfiguration, because he didn't have a wand. His grandfather only briefly mentioned wands, by saying his was made of phoenix feather and chestnut wood. And once again, _where_ would he find phoenix feathers? It's not like he had ever met a magical creature in his life—and how would he recognize one?!).

But maybe this was only true for witches. Witches, he knew, were nothing like what Father said, because his grandmother had been one (a Witch Withe Beauty Moste Exquisite), according to dear old grandfather). Although it wasn't like he had ever really _met_ a 'normal' woman. Father kept him locked up all day, if not out in the training grounds, then in the study, eating, or sleeping. There _had_ been that family of seamstresses and tailors from some Welsh valleys that had stopped by a while ago, and Father had been forced to let them in so they could measure him for robes. Scarlet, the colour of grandfather's crest, and gold, which Godric thought was a little pretentious.

There had been the mother, two boys, the tailors, and two girls, the seamstresses. He recalled the last name…Hufflepuff… and that was about it. He had only needed to meet the boys, Henry and Harold, to tailor him for robes, even though the girls would make them.

So training, studying, eating, sleeping, or listening to Father's rants. Godric sighed and hid his journal. He seemed to have a lot of them recently—today he had gone on about some poor noble lord down south in the fenlands who had a disgrace of a son for an heir. He had been taken over by a demon, apparently. Godric had been immediately convinced that the boy was a fellow mage, but careful probing of Father revealed that the 'demon boy' in question lived all the way in Selborne, just north of the Channel, while Godric lived several hundred miles north of London. That was far to long a distance to use the _Arte of Apparitus_ to get to, and according the his grandfather's notes, you could only _Apparitem? Apparitum?_ to places you had been before. Godric had hardly ever traveled out of his town, Godric's Hollow, and although he longed for adventure, there was one major problem:

He hadn't the foggiest idea how to cook.

So until something happened, Godric Gryffindor, wizard, really-could-be-knight and sort-of-battle mage, was stuck in the wild moors of Godric's Hollow.


End file.
